


One Of These Days

by LadyGlinda



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crack, Drabble, Fluff and Smut, Humor, M/M, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Office Blow Jobs, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sherlock is a Mess, Sibling Incest, holmescest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-26
Updated: 2019-07-26
Packaged: 2020-07-22 21:07:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19986415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyGlinda/pseuds/LadyGlinda
Summary: Sherlock's brain refuses to work properly on a crime scene. His friends are concerned but someone knows just the cure.





	One Of These Days

“It's a… Ngh! Yes! No… Grmph!” Sherlock whirled around with his hands balled to fists, thunderclouds on his face. “Must be! No… Can't… Dammit!” His coat was flattering around him as if it had a mind of his own. Which was more than Sherlock seemed to have right now…

Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade was watching him in wonder and with more than a bit concern. “What is wrong with him? I thought he'd hurl out the solution within ten seconds, as usual.” They had found the corpse of a corpulent old man in a small street, strange signs on his face. He had known at once that this was a case for Sherlock. But he had been wrong, obviously…

John Watson made a soothing gesture with his hand. “Calm down, Sherlock! It will be all fine.”

“No!” Sherlock rumbled. “It's… Tssss… Goohh…”

John sighed and turned to Greg. “That happens sometimes. You know his brain fires on all cylinders all the time and sometimes it just seems to short-circuit and then he can't make deductions for the life of him. Usually it happens when he was bored for a long time beforehand and I don't think he's ever had it on a crime scene?”

Greg shook his head in awe, his eyes fixed on the struggling consulting detective. “I would remember that, believe me.”

“Yeah. It's quite a sight. That's the drama queen you usually don't see.”

“I wouldn’t say that…” The two men chuckled but then Greg turned serious again, watching Sherlock throw his hands into the air in grim despair. “What can we do to help him?”

“Nothing. He usually storms out of the flat, leaving a completely terrified client and my sorry self behind, and comes back an hour or two later with the solution. He refuses to tell me where he goes and what he does to put his brain back together. I would help him if he told me.”

“Sure.” Greg backed away when Sherlock stormed towards him without bothering that he and the doctor where standing in his way.

“Be back! Make pictures, John! Ngghhh!”

“All right. Do whatever you have to do. I suppose you won't tell me, as usual?” John said in a rather resigned tone, but Sherlock didn’t even grace him with an answer.

In a whirl of flying coat tails and fury he hurried to enter a cab, which had miraculously shown up next to him, his phone in his hand.

John turned to Greg. “Don't worry. His majesty will get his brilliant brain together and then he'll inform us about the solution. He's worst when he almost has it and can't catch it.”

The policeman nodded. He knew that feeling.

“Well, let's provide him with some perfect pictures.” Of course the official police photographer had done his job as fine as ever, but if Sherlock wanted John to take pictures with his phone, then so it would be done. Greg trusted this man with his life, no matter how crazy he had just been behaving.

Somehow Sherlock would sort himself out and then he would save Scotland Yard, as always.

*****

Mycroft Holmes was having a strenuous day. Well, he always had. Nothing new under the sun. He had been spending it with dealing with ghastly imbeciles, had been shouted at and called a spoilsport by a whiney Prime Minister who wouldn’t accept that restoring capital punishment to please his insane supporters was out of the question. He had got the approximately two-hundred-and-eleventh dinner invitation from Lady Smallwood and turned it down, as politely as he could, like the other two-hundred-and-ten times. He had read and memorised forty-six reports. He had been living on tea and a sandwich that had been dry and nasty when he had finally got time to eat it. He was done, plainly spoken.

And when he had just sat down with a cup of coffee, his phone vibrated. As if he had developed a sixth sense for him, he knew it was Sherlock.

_Now! Diogenes or bloody Whitehall? SH_

_It is not a good time, Sherlock. Later in my house? MH_

_No way. Case. Brain! SH_

One of these days… Mycroft sighed.

_Fine. Whitehall. But I don't have much time. MH_

_Don't need! Quickly! C U in 10 min. SH_

Mycroft sighed again. Then he let Anthea know that his brother was on the way to talk to him about a family matter. She would make sure Sherlock would be let into the building.

When Anthea ended the intercom connection, she informed the guards about a detective who would soon demand entrance. Apparently it was one of these days…

*****

Anthea looked up when Sherlock swept through her office, heading straight to the door of Mycroft's. He hadn't bothered to knock but she hadn't expected it.

“Nice to see you, Sherlock,” she chirped, and his wild eyes fixed on her.

“Huh? Yeah. Thanks.”

She suppressed a smile. “Go straight through, would you?”

“Humph.” Which could mean just anything, really.

He entered his brother's office in the same manner he had entered hers, closing the door with his heel. She heard the muffled sound of Mycroft's voice and then a groan that definitely came from Sherlock, and then the sound of stomping feet and the turning of a key in the lock.

Yeah. Definitely one of these days…

She smirked and turned back to her computer.

*****

Before Mycroft could even ask him what the problem was and how his day was going, Sherlock, having slipped out of his coat and let it glide to the ground, was already sitting on his desk, which he had cleared from the few folders that had been lying around beforehand.

Long violinist's fingers unzipped black trousers and fumbled a rapidly-swelling long cock out of its confinements.

Knowing conversation was not on the table for now as there was a suffering and horny detective on his table, Mycroft adjusted the position of his chair, bent his head and went to work, his hand rising to cover Sherlock's mouth right before he could utter his trademark initial groan when Mycroft's lips closed around the shiny head of his cock.

He heard Sherlock's muffled sigh of relief when he started working him over, easing the foreskin back and forth, playfully sliding his tongue under it before licking in circles around the moist crown and into the dripping slit.

Knowing he had made his point, he took his hand from Sherlock's mouth and used it to lightly stroke his own throbbing cock through his trousers without ever losing the rhythm of his now steady sucking. He tried to keep his slurping noises and the dribbling of saliva down his chin to a minimum.

Sherlock's breathing had ironically started to slow down when he had begun his efforts, bringing his brother down from his nerve-wrecking brain-storm but now it became more erratic by the second due his growing arousal.

Mycroft bent his head so the large cock could slide into his throat and he swallowed around it expertly. After three years he was quite used to deep-throating and he could muster it without unattractive gagging.

A large hand was placed on the back of his neck but Sherlock refrained from pushing him further down on his cock, instead it felt like a silent encouragement and even an expression of gratitude.

Sherlock tasted like salt and musk and his very unique wild aroma and Mycroft savoured his brother's flavour whole-heartedly. He had cupped Sherlock hairless ballsack now, rolling the soft fellows in his hand like he knew Sherlock loved it.

His hand was back on his brother's luscious lips when he could sense his orgasm building up. Sometimes Sherlock bit into his hand when he came but today he just breathed out a low sigh while emptying himself into Mycroft's still constantly sucking mouth.

When Mycroft had licked him clean, he was very close to climaxing himself. He sat back in his chair while Sherlock slid from the table on rather shaky legs, going to his knees and grabbing Mycroft's cock, which the older man had freed now as well. The beautiful fingers were wrapped around it, the sinful lips took it in, and Mycroft needed no longer than a minute of Sherlock's capable sucking to come as well, watching Sherlock swallowing his semen with dazed eyes. Then he helped him up and Sherlock was already reaching for his phone after deftly tucking himself away.

“Need to call Lestrade,” he said in a completely calm tone.

“Of course you do.” Mycroft stored his spent cock as well, zipping himself up. With a smirk on his lips, he listened to Sherlock spreading his wisdom and giving orders while pacing through his office.

Then Sherlock gathered his coat and put it back on. “Shall I bring dinner tonight?”

Mycroft smiled. “No, Mrs Wilkes will make her famous lasagne for me and I'll gladly share it with you.” She always made enough for three adult men.

“Very nice of you.” Sherlock grinned and came over to him to plant a kiss on his lips. “Thank you, brother mine.”

“Anytime, honey. Love you.”

“Love you, too.” With this Sherlock left and Mycroft sat at his desk for a while with an absent smile on his face before he returned to working on a report. Somehow the day had just become so much brighter.

*****

“Bye, Anthea. Isn't it a wonderful day!”

“It surely is, Sherlock. Bye.” With a slight shake of her head and a smile on her lips she watched him walking through her office, and he looked as if he was wafting.

There had been a time when her boss had been grumpy, sad and depressed after a meeting with his little brother. But for many years now, he had rather looked decidedly happy after it and she had no doubt this would be the case today as well. Holmeses… Definitely made for one another.


End file.
